


The Devil in the Trees

by Neacle



Series: The Devil and the Woman [1]
Category: Alien vs Predator (2004), Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predator (1987), Predator Original Series (1987-1990), Predator Series
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Alien/Human Relationships, Courting Rituals, Curiosity, Exophilia, F/M, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Historical, Infidelity, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, Light Angst, On both their parts lol, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Seduction, Victorian, Western, Xenophilia, setting western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neacle/pseuds/Neacle
Summary: "Young Miss Charbonneau is in love, and is certain he loves her back. He smiles so sweetly when they dance, and he holds her hand in the politest of ways, so gentle and daintily. Yes, they are in love, soon to be married and she couldn't be happier.Yet, one small obstacle seems to stand in her way to perfect satisfaction. She gets a visitor."An historical (steamy) romance starring a young, god-fearing noble lady from Louisiana, and a hunter who was just doing his yearly round on earth. Yeah, you can see where this is going.
Relationships: Predator/Human, Yautja (Predator)/Original Female Character(s), Yautja/Human
Series: The Devil and the Woman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962316
Comments: 226
Kudos: 310





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the Predator franchise. If I did, there'd be a whole lot more of this, let's just say that

The woman searches.

She has for a long time; riding endlessly through the South all the way from New Hanover down to Austin, dressed in the thrown away clothes of her late father, stolen gun and horse. Her aunt's favourite colt, the black beast had carried her away into the night never to be seen again.

The woman searches, and it takes her to Armadillo, a small town where the buildings shake when the train passes and she thinks she will be fine. New Austin is very different from what she is used to; dry lands and harsh winds to her supple bayou and tall trees, the empty planes to her streets of song and people. It is very different indeed, but it will be fine. It must.

She enters the town and quickly hides in the saloon, the beating sun making her legs shake.

It is here that a man walks in, and through a series of unfortunate nabs and a good eye discovers that she's a woman and on the run, and well, returning her to her family would surely put a few well earned dollars in his pocket.

It is here that the man grabs her by the hair that escaped her hat and throws her to the floor, the rough wood biting into her skin as she screams and struggles against him tying her arms and feet. She screams for him to stop and she screams for the bartender to _do something._ When he tries to protest at last the man beats him down as well. 

It is here that the man is occupied, getting careless, and she pulls her petite hands through the bonds, her wrists raw and bloody as she does.

It is here that she runs, gets on her horse and leaves the town. Suffice to say, she will never return to Armadillo. Shortly after, she also takes a knife to her dark locks and weeps for the stab her vanity takes.

The woman searches, and it takes her to Blackwater, where an old veteran without his leg teaches her to fish and pick the scaled bodies clean of their catch. She has never fished before, but the veteran is patient and they spend the day wrapped in the calmness only water can bring. She hasn't realised how much she's missed the sound of a harbour. The veteran seems to know that she's searching, but he does not ask and therefore she does not tell. How would she even be able to explain?

It is here that a posse of gunslingers come into town, and through a series of unfortunate gestures and words discovers that this town is very well worth hassling. It would surely put a few well earned dollars in their pockets.

It is here that the veteran gives her his fishing-rod and tells her to run before the gunslingers shoots him just as she has bent a corner around the next block.

It is here that she will never forget the harsh sound of a gun firing through the streets and the terrified screams of women and children.

It is here that she runs, gets on her horse and leaves the town. She will return to Blackwater, but not for a while.

The woman searches, and it takes her to Strawberry, in the north of New Elizabeth. She has never seen such green trees or lush forests, and the sounds from the rustling canopies soothes her mind in a way she has never quite felt before. The little money she managed to take with her is starting to wear thin, and she is glad that she now knows how to fish. But her horse needs more than grass and water, and it is slowly starting to show.

It is here that she meets a trapper, and he agrees to teach her the ropes, if only to satisfy his own desire to showcase a skill well worth its occasional hardships. Meat and fur pays well if done correctly, and he is nothing if not correct. Her face pales when he hands her the rifle and something shifts in his eyes, and he disappears into his shed and comes back with a bow.

It is here that she learns how to shoot, and the silence is a blessing like no other. Her arms are quivering and she feels the unpleasant droplets of sweat running down her back, but she persists and the trapper rewards her after every success.

It is here that he teaches her to skin her prey, to make use of every part of the animal. He pulls the teeth from the wolf's maw and shows it to her and a sudden flash of recognition runs through her very being, the familiarity of teeth, horns and bones worn like trophies against the skin. Her palms are cold with sweat and the trapper pulls away to spare her the gory sight, thinking he might have upset the youngling. Oh, she wishes it was that simple.

It is here that she thanks him for his knowledge, gets on her horse and leaves town. Strawberry will be visited frequently, the deep green of the forest calling to her.

The woman searches, and it takes her up the river from Flat Iron Lake to Cumberland Falls, where a caravan stops her.

It is here that she meets a gypsy woman, and through a series of fortunate insights and a good eye discovers that she's a woman and, not on the run, no no. A traveler! A wanderer! One she could use.

It is here that the woman gets an offer of well earned dollars in her pockets, in exchange for the rare and strange she comes across on her search. The rare and strange, she cannot help but feel both lust and discomfort. The rare and strange and wondrous and terrifying is something she is far too familiar with.

The woman searches, and it takes her north of Valentine, just on the edge to Ambarino. Luck is with her, as a family finds her stuck by the road, the back leg of her colt swollen and warm. He must rest for many days, and they offer her to stay with them on their farm during the worst days of winter. It gets cold up here, and she is not used to it.

It is here that the grandmother greets them on their return, and through a series of unfortunate questions and a good eye discovers that she's a woman and on the run, but does not say a word. Yet they smile in secret, knowingly, safely.

It is here that she stays longer than she'd first planned, letting out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding so long. The family is kind, and she helps where she can on the farm. She has never done work like this, its unfamiliarity both refreshing and uncomfortable.

It is here that the grandmother takes her to her room, in the quiet dull of the evening and asks for a story. She hesitates but tells her about Armadillo, Blackwater, Strawberry and Cumberlands Falls, about the bounty hunter, the veteran, the trapper and the gypsy woman. The grandmother listens intently, politely, and thanks her when it's done. Then she smiles knowingly, safely, and asks again.

It is here that the woman succumbs, sits down, and speaks; “My name is Gabrielle Charbonneau, and I consorted with the Devil.”


	2. Gabrielle

Gabrielle Evangeline Charbonneau, born and raised in the jewel of Lemoyne, riding through the streets of Saint Denis safely tucked away in her stepfather's finest carriage. Youngest of three, her sisters would constantly try and put her in her place as she rushed ahead; on horse, on the field, in a boat, on a ball. She is rich and she is free and she wants to  _feel_ everything. Why would she hold back her passions and instincts? 

Young Miss Charbonneau has just turned one and twenty, and she is soon to be married. The young gentleman is Alphonse Rainier, one of Saint Denis' up and coming entrepreneurs, and he is very handsome, and very charming. Perfectly amiable.

Young Miss Charbonneau is in love, and is certain he loves her back. He smiles so sweetly when they dance, and he holds her hand in the politest of ways, so gentle and daintily. Yes, they are in love, soon to be married and she couldn't be happier. Yet, one small obstacle seems to stand in her way to perfect satisfaction. She gets a visitor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, I know. It'll get better, trust me ~


	3. The Beginning and the End

It begins when Alphonse takes her boating in the summer, the heatwave claiming Lemoyne making her lie back in the boat with both fan and parasol high in hand. They politely discuss his business; something about a client reluctant to sell when a movement behind him catches her eye. A rustling in the cypresses down the riverside, the tall trees of Bayou Nwa. A rustling which in any other case would be taken for granted, a rustling made by a heron, or a hawk, or perhaps even an eagle. Nothing unusual at all, except that she swears she can see...something emerge from the canopy. The leaves bend and twist in unnatural shapes behind it and as she calls out in distress for Alphonse to look it disappears as quickly as it appeared.

It begins when she and her middle sister are out riding and Marianne insist they take the trail through the bayou. She hesitates, the sight from the boatride earlier that month still fresh in her mind. But her sister is persistent and reassuring, surprised at her younger sibling's sudden reluctance. Since when has Gabrielle ever been careful? At last she gives in and they ride forward, the cypress trees towering over them as they enter the wood. They ride on, chattering about Mr Jameson's upcoming riverboat cruise and the latest fashionable headwear from New Orleans when she hears it; a soft, long trill echoing through the canopy that seems to make everything else go quiet. She can hear Marianne continue speaking in the background, and wonder how she cannot hear it. A purr - far too loud to be a cougar - that's over far too quickly to fully register, yet it stops her dead in her tracks with her horse nervously chomping on the bit. Her sister turns and gives her a questioning look. The bayou breaths again.

It begins with Lady Bernoune's Forth of July-ball, where Alphonse leads her out to the balcony overlooking the great garden to kiss her on the cheek and tell her the date of their wedding. His latest business-proposition having finally went through, their future is set and he's eager for it to start. In just two months their life together can begin. Two months, and then she'll be Gabrielle Rainier. She can barely wait.

When he goes to fetch them each a drink she looks out over the garden, vigorously fanning her face and neck as the evening sun lays its last warm rays over the mansion. The whole garden is painted in silhouettes of blacks and reds and just as she hears what must be Alphonse coming up the stairs something moves in the nearest tree and in the blink of an eye she sees a man among the branches, for surely it must be a man? It must, it...cannot have been anything else. Whatever she saw, it's gone when Al calls her name and hands her a glass of champagne.

It begins when three bodies are found hanging from the trees deep in the bayou, and the citizens of Saint Denis are forbidden from going there until Marshal Davies and his deputies can figure out the cause.

When two more show up, this time in such a gruesome state that their stepfather refuse to describe it, the servants starts to whisper. They've heard things, they say. Strange trills and unexplainable shadows, unnatural sounds and forms from deep in the bayou. Close to the river too, close to the house.  _Le Diable des Arbres,_ they say is hushed voices. The Devil in the Trees. 

Her sisters laugh at their superstition, waving it aside as suicides or God forbid,  _savages_ . The Marshal will take care of it in no time. Yes, her sisters laugh, but Gabrielle? She stares out her window, out among the cypress trees, and thinks about the strange trills, the unnatural sounds and the unexplainable shadows. Thinks about the dark man she saw at sunset, there one moment, gone the next. 

_The Devil in the Trees._

She closes the curtains.

It ends when she catches a cold, and has to stay home as her family takes the carriage over to the Richards', an invitation she's sullen to miss.

The servants look after her and brings her both soup and water, warm beverages and tiny chocolate sweets. She's wanting for nothing, and even as her nose is running and it hurts to swallow, as she missed what's sure to be a lovely dinner party and Marshal Davies has yet to find what's causing the deaths in the swamp, she lies in her bed quite content. She thinks of Alphonse, of their wedding, of her dress, of the preparations. She thinks of her future, and then she falls asleep.

It ends when she wakes in the middle of the night, body shivering of cold and sweat.

It ends when she reaches over to her bedside table to ring the bell, and discover her window is open.

It ends when the feverish haze undoubtedly plays tricks with her mind, because she hears it, softly this time, almost gently. A low purr.

It ends when she sees a man climb through her window, for surely it must be a man. It must, it _can't_ be anything else.


	4. The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for what could be seen as attempted assault, I guess? (It's not, I promise. But fighting between yautjas can be arousing, hence the 'cultural differences' tag)
> 
> Everything in this fic will be consensual, but I wanna put this out here just in case <3

On the 20th of July, two months until her wedding, the Devil enters her bedchamber, and it doesn't matter how thorough her biblestudies may have been. How the holy texts describe him as a former angel, a snake dressed in desirability.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and she thinks in dread that the Bible must be wrong, because the creature that steps through her window, even hiding in the dark of the night, is neither angelic _nor_ desirable.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and she screams when he takes a step forward, pulling her covers tightly around her and weeps. Her tears only stop when her handmaiden barges in to pull her into her arms and gently shush her. The room is empty but for them.

She wakes the next morning and tells herself it was the fever dulling her mind and eyes, tells herself it was a simple dream, and in her hazy state must have opened the window to get some air. Her handmaiden saw nothing, and no trace of anyone is left in her room.

Yes, surely it was the fever.

On the 22nd of July, the Devil enters her bedchamber, and her fever has settled, even if her nose is red and her throat still hurts. She wakes from a fitful sleep to the sound of her window opening and this time she has nothing to blame.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and in the light of the full moon she thinks again that the bible is wrong. The being in her room is neither angel nor man, no...what she sees is a dragon dressed in iron and bone, a metal mask covering its face.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and she opens her mouth to scream once more, but the Devil is quick, and before she can utter a sound he's climbed upon her bed, a claw-tipped finger pressed against her mouth.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and she stares at him as tears run down her cheeks. He is massive, the bed creaking under his weight, and she tries to understand, tries to comprehend the creature before her. The faceless mask tells her nothing.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and he pulls his finger away from her lips and instead holds it up before his mask. _Hush._ The tears continue to fall but she nods, who knows what dismissing Satan himself would do? She flinches when he takes her hands in his, so tiny in his clawed ones. The skin is rough and warm and she cannot help but make the comparison to the gators out in the swamp. A dragon indeed.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and leaves in her hands a polished bird-skull, delicate and lean. She stares at it in confusion, but before she can truly react she feels the bed dip and when she looks up, the Devil has climbed back out her window.

She wakes the next morning and tries again to tell herself it was a dream, but she feels the skull tightly clutched in her hands, too scared to let it go in case he would know and turn wrathful. She lies in bed with it for a long time, contemplating what to do, until she carefully places it on her bedside table and looks out the window, heart hammering as she does.

“I'll just put it here.” She murmurs almost frantically. “It won't leave my side, I'll take good care of it.”

She both hopes that he listens and not.

On the 23rd of July, she steals salt from the kitchen and spreads it out in front of her window. The golden cross she wears around her neck during the day now stays on her person as she goes to bed, yet the Devil still enters her bedchamber; bathed in moonlight, his mottled skin glistening as if he's just been submerged in water.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, stepping on the salt and continues forward, and she thinks that perhaps her faith is found lacking, perhaps she's been a poor Christian, and this is how God punishes her. She holds her cross tightly in her hand and starts to whisper a prayer, then two, then three.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and she's surprised when he stops in his tracks, head bending to the side as she whispers. Water run down his mane and shoulders, dripping on her floor, and he raises a finger to the front of his mask like a reflection of yesterday. _Hush._ Then the other hand pressed palm wide to his chest. A gesture so genuine and human that it completely takes her off guard. _Please._

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and the words die on her lips as he slowly walks up to her bedside table, the tiny skull placed by the lamp. She watches as his chest swells and then he turns to her and trills quietly, a gentle sound, pleased. He is clearly happy that she's kept his gift close at hand, and she's slowly starting to wonder if that's good or bad.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and a lump grows in her throat as he kneels beside her bed and reaches behind to retrieve another gift, this time the tiny skull of a mammal. She's not well versed enough to know of what. This too is polished and clean, its teeth glistening in the light from the window. She swallows and tries to keep her eyes on him as she holds out her hands for him to take, gently placing the skull in her palms. She holds it tightly for a moment, then puts it beside the first one by her lamp. Another purr from him; just a little higher, a little more pleased, then he stands up and slowly reaches out. She flinches when his claws touch her forehead, her body tense as they softly run through her hair. A tiny shiver escapes her when he retreats, his fingertips scratching her scalp in the nicest of ways. She closes her eyes for just a moment, and when they open, he is gone.

She wakes the next morning and can no longer deny that this must be real, the eyeless sockets of her “gifts” staring her right in the face. But if this is real, and the Devil has come upon her, clearly immune to both salt and the cross, what can be done? Perhaps it is wrong to accept his gifts, perhaps she is simply encouraging him by not rejecting them.

She does not know, and she spends her day deep in thought, the rest of her family contemplating their daughter and sister's sudden melancholy. She does not notice their concern.

When her eldest sister Adrienne and her brother-in-law takes her to church in the afternoon for their weekly donation, she sees a chance to hopefully get a little clarity.

She asks to speak with the Father alone for a moment, and Adrienne raises an eyebrow, but does not protest. A young woman on the brink of marriage seeking an audience with a priest is not very unusual. She wishes it was for that reason, oh how she wishes. Troubles of the heart, and not nightly visits from something so... _inhuman_ and yet strangely not. Something...exciting. She curses inwardly, this must be exactly what he wants her to think.

On the 24th of July, the priest's words ring clearly in her mind, and when the Devil enters her bedchamber she is ready. She does not meet his gaze as he steps forward, and when he carefully reaches out a hand she turns completely. _You shall not meet his eyes, and you shall not speak to him. Ignore his gifts, ignore his presence. Pray to our Lord, and our Lord shall be with you._

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and again she starts to pray, louder this time, eyes closed and turned away from him. She speaks words from Psalm three and twenty, and the Devil stops like he did last night, and again tips his head, like a curious cat. She begins on St. Patrick's Breastplate, and the Devil tries time and again to meet her eyes, moving from one side of her bed to the next. He does not try to touch her again. Sounds of apparent frustration escapes him, yet she perseveres.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, but does not stay long. What has now turned into a vigorous chant of praying on her part, has slighted his crusade of temptation in the deepest of ways. He has been ignored. She only opens her eyes and quiets down when she hears the window closing behind him. A shudder of relief travels through her body and she sinks down under her covers, breath shaky and throat raw. She turns to reach for her glass by the table and freezes in dread when she notices it.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and may have fled, but has still left another gift; placed beside the other two is the skull of a cougar.

She wakes the next morning, and hope it has worked.

On the 25th of July, she does not wake from the sound of her window, and in the morning she wants to weep in relief. Then she sees the skull by the foot of the sill, placed neatly right in front of her drapes. Her throat is dry as she slowly leaves her bed and walks up to it. The skull of what can only be a bear. Her stepfather has one in his study, placed and mounted on the shelf behind his desk.

She looks out her window, shielding her eyes from the bright morning rays, and sighs.

On the 26th of July, she sleeps through the night once more. She wakes with the quiet hope of peace, the hope of things returning to normal.

Yet it is with disappointment that she looks over towards the window and sees that she is wrong, and it is with both dread and a strange sort of excitement that she walks over and gazes at her gift. The skull of an alligator, bigger than she has ever seen. Terrifying in its raw and naked state, every tooth on display before her. Ignoring the Devil clearly doesn't work. Something else must be done.

On the 27th of July, she lies awake in wait, and when the Devil enters her bedchamber she is ready once more, only this time in a different fashion.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and pauses on the windowsill when she sits up and meets his gaze head on. He almost seems...baffled, and the casual, human gesture once again takes her slightly off guard. Would the Devil truly act in such a surprised kind of way? _No, she must stay vigilant._ She steels herself, and gets out of bed.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and he climbs in eagerly when she steps closer, and she hear him purr again, that drawn out trill that tickles her neck in both apprehension and wonder. It almost annoys her. Has he nothing better to express? Can the Devil not speak in human tongue, he who has walked beside them all since the beginning, tempting and pulling.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and as they stand before each other, he reaches back and pulls forth her gift, and she wonders what possibly could be more grand than the gator she has hidden under her bed. She stands waiting, ready to reject it, ready to say No, when instead of a skull, the Devil takes her hand and gives her an orchid, soft pink and delicate. Her favourite flower.

Her resolve crumbles, and in its place is only frustration.

“What do you want from me?” She hisses, and before she can think anything at all, she has raised her hand and pushes it against his chest. “ _What do you want from me?_ ” She repeats, face red as the pushing grows more intense, and when the pushing turns to pounding, the Devil gives his due. She hears him trill again, louder this time, and then he starts to counter her attacks, which are meagre at best. Her frustration grows as his palms stop every hit and when she grunts in annoyance and tries to hit harder, the purring intensifies. Is he laughing at her? Mocking her? Her passionate temper, usually kept at bay, bursts and she bares her teeth at him, hissing every possible slur and vulgarity her mind provides her with. Oh, how her late father would be ashamed. Not to mention her mother, still very much alive!

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and when she growls at him the game seems to change, and he grabs her by the arms, the claws digging into her skin. She gasps as he holds her, and before she can react he has pushed her backwards and down unto her bed, the purring loud and quick. The anger immediately drains from her person, and when he presses his heavy body against hers, she feels exactly what has replaced his current mood as well.

“N-No!” She hisses, fear and disgust and something unrecognisable filling her, struggling against his tight grip. “No!”

And the Devil raises his head to see her teary eyes and something seems to snap into place, because he freezes on top of her for just a moment, and then he's backed off, sitting on his haunches by the end of her bed, a soft chirp escaping his mask. Her heart still hammering, she looks up at his retreated form, chocked, confused. Slowly she sits up, face red, body tense. Why would the Devil listen to her pleas, why would he stop?

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and they stare at each other for a long time. The orchid lies discarded on the floor, and it is with careful and slow movements that he takes it in his claws and puts it on her lap. She cannot tell for certain, but he seems...ashamed, shoulders hunched and head bowed. She touches the petals gently, and the tears come back.

“What do you want from me?” She asks again. “I do not- I don't understand.”

The Devil looks up and meets her eyes, and she wonders what the mask is hiding. Such a morbid curiosity. Carefully he raises his hand, and once more he runs his fingers through her hair, breaking her train of thought with a tender gasp. His hand moves down her neck and settles against her breast, his palm against her heart. She shivers against him, and when he gently takes one of her hands in his other, her throat is dry with anticipation.

The Devil enters her bedchamber, and puts her hand against his own chest, and they stay like that, a reflection of each other. The silence is heavy around them, filling the place with only their heartbeats and their breath. It seems that the Devil, just like any other man, just like her, has a heart as well. She feels it against her palm, steady and strong. Yearning for... something.


	5. The Choice

The day after, Alphonse takes her riding up the riverside. The Bayou is still off limits, so they must take their pleasure elsewhere. They have always held the river-trail in high regard, and Al talks eagerly of whatever fancy carriage he has seen in the latest catalogue from New Orleans. Yes, he talks eagerly, but today she is absent, lost in thought and feeling.

If the Devil wishes to court her, to impress her with gifts and have her as his own, can she trust his sincerity? Can she trust him in her refusal? Is the Devil not the embodiment of evil and sin?

Yet, when he left her the night before, he had pressed his forehead against her own in the most tender of ways. Had cupped her cheek in his passive hand and rumbled with what only could be warmth. She could not help the mixed feeling of fear and curiosity running down her spine as he had stood up, his desire still apparent behind the metal-clad codpiece.

She cannot stop the blush on her face as they ride, and quickly blames the sun when Alphonse asks if she is well, her voice unsteady and loud. They ride back in a sort of awkwardness she has never quite felt with him before, and when he bids her farewell and takes her hand to kiss, she discovers that his touch which she usually finds so polite and kind to...lack something.

She cannot quite put her finger on what.

In the afternoon, she has tea with her mother and Marianne, and they ask about Al and his business, about the fittings for her dress later that week, about everything that suddenly seems to matter less.

Blaming headache from the blaring sun, she excuses herself and retreats to her room. The orchid has been placed in fresh water and sits on the windowsill, it's presence another reminder of her current predicament.

She thinks again of last night, of his claws, his warmth, his touch. She thinks of his arousal, how it had strained against his clothing, just a touch away as he'd stood before her. A shiver runs through her.

She thinks of how the Devil wants her, desires her. Without words he had shared his wishes, heart to heart. _Her_.

What on earth could that mean? In a moment of weakness, a thought forms faster than she can stop it. If the Devil has chosen her, chosen her to share his heart and perhaps become...better? Is she not then _truly special_? A beacon for Satan's redemption. A _saint_.

The blatant disgust filling her being at such a vain and prideful thought almost makes her want to retch, horrified at herself for ever letting such a thing enter her mind. She spends the rest of the day in bed, holding her cross so tightly her knuckles turn white.

When the Devil comes at nightfall, she cannot help but admit there is a certain wilderness to him, something untamed and ancient that calls to her. She notices the metal and bone is gone from his person, and he enters her bedchamber wearing only the leather underneath and the remains of his codpiece. Gently making his way to her bed, he procures another orchid, white this time, and when she takes it he rumbles in satisfaction.

This night she's let her oil lamp stay lit, and although it doesn't offer as much vision as she would have wanted, it paints the Devil in enough light for her to gain at least a little more clarity. The Devil kneels down before her and his scales seem to shift between greens and dark yellows, mottled and rough. She gapes a little when she sees his mane, what she previously thought to be hair seems to...she does not know what. Without thinking, she reaches out towards a tendril and runs a finger down its length, marvelling at the texture. A soft, almost leather-kind-of-feel and whatever she was about to say dies on her lips as the creature before her visibly shudders at her touch, another deep rumble travelling from his chest.

Her hand retreats as she looks at him, and before she can react he has reached out to cup her face and once more press his forehead against hers.

“I...” She quickly wets her dry lips and swallows, slightly leaning back to look him in the eyes, or as much as she's able, covered as they are. “I must tell you- Surely you know I am to be married. I cannot-” She does not know how to continue, and she almost chuckles. Why would the Devil ever care about Al? She desperately tries to ignore the tiny voice in her head insisting she wouldn't want him to back down even if that was the case.

Yet the Devil leans back as well and tilts his head, seemingly contemplating her words. They stay like that for a while, and for a moment the apprehension she feels almost gets replaced by awkwardness, until he lets out a soft trill and lowers his hands from her cheeks. She curses her traitorous mind for feeling disappointment.

But instead of retreating, the Devil sits up straighter and once more presses his hand against her chest, and takes hers to do the same for him.

“Yes, I know that.” She sighs, her annoyance from yesterday threatening to come back. He grunts at this and actually shakes his head, the sudden gesture making her abruptly close her mouth. Removing her hand from his chest, he presses his own all the more urgently against her, keeping his eyes on her all the while.

“You...want me?” She tries, and it feels both strange and wondrous to say it out loud. And when he bows his head her pulse quicken just a bit. Still holding her hand, he raises it back up towards him, but stops just when her palm is about to touch his skin and gently lets go. He looks at her outstretched hand, then up at her, mask telling her nothing, and yet everything.

“Do I want-” And she stills as realisation slowly dawns.

Does she want him? If she does, he will stay. And if she doesn't...he will accept it? She is to be married, he seems to understand that, seems to have thought deeply about it. But when has holy matrimony ever bothered the Devil? What does he care that she'll soon have a husband, if her want and desire will be for _him_?

A foolish notion to even have brought it up, she realises and actually laughs at it. So foolish.

She looks at his mask, at his hidden eyes. She wonders again what lurks behind the metal, why he even wears it to begin with. She desperately wants to find out.

Standing on the edge of the endless abyss, she dives heart first, unbeknown of any consequences.

“Yes, I want you.” She breathes, and presses her palm against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry <333


	6. The Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depictions of sex, descriptions of genitals etc, etc

If someone had told her a year ago that she would be happy never being married, she'd have laughed in their face. That she would be happy without a husband or a family.

But, she _would_ find her true love, her _soulmate,_ and gain knowledge and experience far beyond this world.

In hindsight she's still not quite sure what she would have chosen – given the chance – but right now, she sees only one inevitable end. It begins with the Devil covering her hand with his and bowing his head once more. And she manages to think of him as quite the gentleman still, regarding her in such respectful a way.

Then he cups her face again and runs his claws through her hair and all thought is lost. He seems fascinated with her hair, most likely because his own is so different, and thrums as she quivers before him. His fingers move on to her mouth and he stays there for a bit, thumb pressed against her like they did that first night, her eyes flickering shut as the claw lightly pulls on her lower lip. This too intrigues him, and he leans in just a little to watch the muscle stretch and release. She exhales when he moves on, her cheeks warm and tingling. Heart pounding hard against her ribcage, she tenses slightly when he stops at her breasts, and when he eagerly tweaks a rosy peak through her thin nightgown, it truly occurs to her that this is indeed real. No dream, no hallucination, and she gasps at both the realisation and the sensation, deft fingers pulling and squeezing. Her mind is racing, is this- is this what... For just a moment she allows herself to imagine Alphonse here before her, touching her like this, and she cannot picture it at all.

The pleasure travel in waves down her spine and out her fingertips and toes, and when her most deepest of places skips a beat she hears him rumble again, his entire body thrumming against her. She can only breathe, and the orchid in her hand drops to the floor. Leaning closer, he inhales slowly and trills in content, hands moving down her belly and pauses there.

“Don't stop.” She groans, and feels ashamed of her sudden eagerness. Who is this girl, she wonders in chock. She does not have long to contemplate, for the Devil purrs again and grabs her by the hips, lifting and pushing her further up the bed, climbing up behind her. She huffs in surprise at his suddenness, but the annoyance quickly flies by as he settles down and pulls her legs over his thighs. The sturdy wood creaks under their combined weight, and she marvels at his body, massive and powerful. Even sitting down, he towers over her, blocking the moon from outside. His hands move up her calves and thighs, pulling the nightgown with them, and she cannot help but cover her face in shyness when he starts to slip it up past her waist and then shoulders, the purring never subsiding. She takes a deep breath when she feels the cloth up by her arms and moves for him, shivering a little as she's left bare. She's a slender thing, and for just a second she wonders what he must think of her laying there before him, quiet as he is except for those eerie sounds. He seems to study her, tilting his head this way and that, yet his hands never settles down, roaming about her body. She takes that as a good sign, and wonders when she started to feel this desperate need for validation. From the Devil, of all the people in all the world, above and below.

She almost laughs, but is firmly reminded of _other_ things when his hands slowly leaves her. At first she whines a little at his departure, but then nervously swallows the lump in her throat as he starts to unbuckle his own apparel. The hardy leather around his chest and shoulder falls to the floor with a heavy thud and she can't seem to look anywhere but his arms and hands, the muscle moving under his skin as he deftly moves out of every piece. Without thinking, she bites her lip as only his codpiece remains, and actually whimpers when he leaves it be. She can see it bulging, feel it against her calf if she just moves her leg _a little_ , and he grunts when she smirks up at him and moves just a touch. _Who is this girl,_ she thinks again. Then her heart skips in both trepidation and expectation as his hands move up to his mask.

She hears a hissing, almost like the steam from a train, and then the beating of her heart drowns out everything else in the room. She counts every thud, every second, and all she sees is the mask lowering. He is slow, the removal almost ritualistic in its precision. She sees the scales, the crest, his forehead, his eyes – _molten gold and striking –_ and then carefully puts the mask down by his side, and looks back down, meeting her.

The first thing she knows with clarity is that she's unable to look away, but also incapable of blinking. The second thing she knows is that she wants to scream, but the breath has left her body and all she can do is cover her mouth and let out a quiet sob.

_Teeth,_ a maw of teeth, flickering, pulling. Canines gleaming in the light of the lamp, and she wishes she hadn't left it on.

The Devil looks at her, and when his jaw splits wide open to reveal a black, forked tongue slithering out towards her she feels her body respond again and she clenches her eyes shut and wails into her palms.

She can feel him tense above her, a low keening rumbling through his body and up her legs, yet she doesn't dare open her eyes, doesn't dare gaze upon him again. The Dragon, demonic and twisted. The true face of Satan. What is she doing? _What is she doing?_

She doesn't feel anything at all for a moment, the room quiet except for her sobs. Then she hears the rustling of cloth and feel the bed shift and creak as he nears her, the tendrils of his mane brushing her arms and shoulders. A hand touches her forehead and she inhales as she feels him gently pull her hands away from her face. Tipping her jaw towards him, she cannot help but open her eyes just a little, and she meets his own, so close, so bright and fiery. She focuses on them, on their colour, their shape, their feelings. If the eyes are the window to one's soul, then the Devil has quite a fitting pair.

So expressive, so like her own, and when he blinks slowly at her, the skin crinkling at the sides, she finds she can breathe again, at least a little. Carefully, her hand still shaking, she reaches up and touches his face, fingertips idly tracing his brows and down his cheekbones. She pauses there, their similarities ending. She takes another deep breath and moves on. He has no nose, instead the maw stretches up and two canines greet her fingers as she travels across his ridge. She moves down to his jaw and tentatively touches the fangs and skin, and when he closes his eyes and meets her hand she can't help the tiny smile that forms.

Her pulse still racing, she reaches for his mane, remembering his earlier reaction to her touches. Fingers threading through the tendrils, now and again catching on what she deems must be decorative metal rings, she grabs a handful and _pulls_. The reaction is immediate, and the Devil opens his maw once more and groans into her neck, his heavy body pressing down against hers. She can do nothing but stare, mouth open in disbelief.

That she can make him feel this way, and...they've barely even begun. Her body is practically buzzing, and to her chagrin she feels her own core as hungry and wanting as he seems to be. Never in her life has she felt this much want; not for Al, not for anyone. She knows the Devil must draw it out of her, this sinful desire, yet in this moment she cannot find it in herself to care.

Slowly he sits back up, and she bites her lip again when he pulls her closer, her core against his own, and gasps when she feels it, nothing but leather between them. He trills and grips tighter, fingers and claws burrowing into her hips and bottom, not enough to break the skin, but close enough to sting. She gasps out and he trills again, hips grinding against hers, the texture of the leather to her core sending her mind towards oblivion.

“Please-” She begs, and he stutters slightly in his movements. “Please!” She whines again, and cannot help her hips from fighting against his grip, urging him on. He chirps once, twice, then grinds down on her again, harder this time, faster.

There's a pressure building inside her, something unknown, yet...People talk, her married sister most of all. Rising and rising, she feels it. He bends over her then, maw open and she can't help the tiny spike of fear when she sees his tongue again. Then she feels it against her skin and let's out a shaky moan. Feels it against her breast, against her rosy peak, then the other. He grinds faster and shifts his grip just a little and God help her, she shatters like broken glass. Like a million tiny pieces she lies there, covers clenched in her fists, panting hard and legs spasming. She closes her eyes.

The small death, indeed.

She stays like that for a moment, riding out the last euphoric waves and sighs when she feels him moving above her. Slowly sitting up, she pauses when she sees his hand on his codpiece, and she holds her breath as he starts to unbuckle the straps.

She admits, she has never seen one, and certainly not up close, but she cannot help but think that his manhood certainly looks...interesting. Dark like his tongue, it rests against his thigh, ridged and heavy. He takes it in hand and pumps, pulling back the skin to reveal the flared, dark red head and she lets out a shaky whimper. He trills and reaches for her shoulder, pushing her down against the covers again, then grabs her leg and pulls her to the side. Her heart slams against her chest and she can't drag her eyes away from his arousal as he crawls up behind her, thick and pulsing between his legs.

Many years ago, her late father had taken her and her sisters to the local stables, and without meaning to she'd been witness to a breeding, the stallion's heavy cock a hard-forgotten memory. She cannot help but make the comparison between them now, and her mind races as she feels him press up against her. A million thoughts rushes through her head; trepidation, excitement, nervousness, fear, curiosity, desire, _want._

She feels so tiny against his chest, but cannot stop from smirking as he bends an arm around her to press a hand against her breast, then lifts her leg to press his hips against her. She holds her breath, eyes on his manhood, head just by her opening, so close. He purrs, and she turns from his arousal with great reluctance to meet his eyes, questioning.

The Devil seems to...wait for something, and her desire and patience are struggling at their wits end.

“Please.” She whispers again, and he seems to react strangely this time as well, eyes widening. Like he's not used to it. He raises a brow and that as well strikes her as such a human thing to do that she pause too. “Yes!” She says, in frustration this time, and he raises both brows. She bares her teeth. “Yes, I demand it!”

And it has to be something in the way she says it, or _what_ she says, because the Devil flares his maw and trills aloud, grabs her leg tighter and enters.

She'd felt her desire burning through her veins, felt her core yearning for him, yet it doesn't prepare her for the fullness of him, the hardened heat filling her up. She moans aloud, then covers her mouth with her hand, terrified of being heard. He rumbles behind her, his whole body thrumming into her own. He stays in her a moment, moving just a little to loosen her up, and when she dares throw a glance towards their joining her heart stops for just a second when she sees him only halfway inside. It seems to be a common theme with him; to feel both dread and unbridled want at the same time, and her body clenches down on him without thought. He rumbles again and pushes back, going just a little deeper and she moans deeply into her palm, glassy eyed and trembling.

The ache begins to fade, and when he slowly pulls out she quivers at the sensation it brings, electricity up her spine and out towards the universe. And when he enters once more she smiles mouth open behind her hand, sighing as she does.

He begins moving in earnest then, face burrowing into her neck, the fangs gently pulling on the skin; not to break, but to...hold her.

She closes her eyes and rides with him, rides the waves, rides the pleasure. She reaches for his mane to pull again and he groans, stuttering in his movement, then before she knows it she's pressed cheek against the covers as he turns her on her belly, bottom up and mounts her again from behind. Hand still tangled with his tendrils, her moans mirror his rhythm; quick, strong, and without wanton. She presses her mouth against the covers and prays to God no one hears them. The irony isn't lost on her, in hindsight.

The ridged texture of him makes her start to climb once more, she feels it, with absolute clarity this time. Rising, building, and she pulls ever harder on his mane, nails digging in. Her mouth goes dry as he _growls_ in her ear and slams in, tip to root and oh, she shatters once more. She screams into her bed, heart threatening to burst, and then she feels his fangs in her neck as he roars into her skin, her blood, her whole being. Liquid heat, molten and thick, he fills her core, over and over, riding the last waves of their pleasure.

Still inside her, he collapses half on top of her, most of his weight on his arm by her side, and she flinches a little when he lets go of her neck, stinging and bleeding. She feels the forked tip of his tongue as he gently cleans her, then he sits up and starts turning her around to face him, legs once more across his thighs.   
She gasps as he slowly pulls out, his seed following, running down her core and covers. He trills quietly and pushes a finger against her, watches it stop the flow, like he wants it to stay. She shivers as he runs the digit up and down her folds, his wetness mixing with her own. She sits up as well, eyes traveling from his spent manhood up his abdomen and chest, to his broad shoulders and strong neck. She marvel once more at his stature, at his strength. He could be human but for the scales, she thinks, and then she looks at his face. Then again, perhaps not.

He turns to look at her as well and they stay like that, green eyes meeting gold. Then she yawns, and the spell is broken. The absurdity makes her laugh out and he tilts his head at her, jaw moving. He leans forward to push their foreheads together, and she sighs. Then he pushes her back down among the covers and pillows and follows soon after. Grabbing her by the waist he pulls her against his chest and burrows his face in her hair. She's too tired to care about the consequences of being caught if he stays. Truth be told, it doesn't even occur to her. She can only sigh and reach over to turn off the lamp. Sleep soon claims her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you B*d Dr*g*on for supplying us all with inspiration and visuals for good alien D, and thank you in particular product Sleipnir for being the model of this one


	7. The Morning

She awakens in the morning alone, and wonders if the Devil only walks the night. Yet, she's heard him during the day, seen glimpses. Yet always hidden, unseen. It makes sense, she thinks. A dragon could never walk among men.

No, the night is his mistress. The night is his mistress and – she swallows – so is she.

She sits up and flinches at his seed, now dried and cold between her thighs. Her hips and legs are aching just a little, red scratches from his claws a stark contrast on her pale skin. Her discarded nightgown will have to serve as she takes the waterfilled glass by her table and gently cleans herself.

When her handmaiden bids her good morning, she orders a bath and washing of her bedclothes, grateful beyond belief that she doesn't ask why. She hides the bitemarks on her neck with her hair and pray they won't notice the rest.

In the bright light of day, her actions from last night slowly seem to be...less romantic and grand. A dramatic coupling of desire and intimacy, the paragon of sin bringing her with him like a whirlwind. She hugs her knees as she sits in the bathtub, reality hitting and she asks herself once more; _what is she doing?_

This can't continue. _Perhaps?_ No, she's quite determined. _But oh, his body. His claws giving her goosebumps. His manhood filling her so deeply, so thickly._ She bites her lip.

No, she's to be married. She loves Alphonse. _So? Many men have mistresses. Can't she? Can't she love Al and also have the Devil at her feet?_ No, he doesn't deserve that, he's a good man, a loving man. And she's a good woman, she'd never do that to him.

Except – and her body goes cold – she already has.

That's not what a good woman does. Letting the Devil in, letting him _fuck_ her like some common harlot. Like an animal.

She burrows her face in her arms and wants to stay like that forever.

She eats little at breakfast, and her mother inquires on her headache from yesterday, on her ride with Alphonse. God, it was only yesterday. It feels like a lifetime ago. Everything does.

She smiles politely, and answers in similar fashion. What more can she do?

Al comes calling on her after lunch, and they take a stroll to the riverside café. Every time he looks at her or touches her she's scared that he'll somehow know she's bedded another, which is silly, she knows. All he does is smile, and he's obviously worried, having heard about her ailment from her mother. He's a good man, a loving man. She drinks her coffee and stares out across the river, towards the cypress trees. Is he there, she wonders. Watching her?

Then Alphonse calls out and points towards the pier behind them.

“Lots of flowers this year around, they really must like the heat.” He hums into his cup and she turns around to see orchids grow right under the bridge. Her traitorous heart skips a beat.

“Quite pretty.” Al says and she can only nod.

“Yes, very much.” She smiles faintly. “They're my favourite.”

He looks up from his plate. “Oh? You never told me.” Then he smiles. “I'll have to buy you some then. For the house.”

He's a good man, a loving man. And she's not.

“I'd love that.” She says anyway.

He bids her farewell at her door, says he will take her boating tomorrow, and gives her that charming smirk he gave her the first time they were introduced. She can't help but smile back, and thinks that perhaps this can be salvaged. She loves Al, after all. And he loves her.

Everything is going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then everything proceeded to _not_ go fine
> 
> But I think you've figured that out ;P


	8. The Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depictions of sex, descriptions of genitals yadda yadda, you know the drill

When the sun sets and everyone has retreated for the evening, the Devil taps on her window.

He is early this evening, and she startles a little when he opens the curtains and steps in. He wears his armour again, and a small traitorous part of her is disappointed and wonders if this night won't be like the last. _She shouldn't want that anyway._

He stays by the window though, and that makes her pause. Then he looks at her bed, then up to her, letting out a chirp. _May I?_

She bites her lip. If she says no, he will leave. She knows that without uncertainty. Despite their slight difficulty with communication, the Devil seems to respect whatever she has to say. Every yes and no has been granted.

She loves Al, she repeats in her head. She loves him, and she can end this anytime she wants. Truly! There are two months left until their wedding, she- she has time.

Meeting his gaze, she nods.

The Devil steps forward then, only stopping at the foot of her bed. Meticulously he starts to unbuckle and undress, never leaving her gaze, and she slowly puts down the book she was reading. Piece after piece falls to the floor, and she can't help but crawl out from under her covers and make her way to him, heart beating faster the more he removes. She gets up on her knees to run her hands down his shoulders, to feel the muscle jump under her touch. He rumbles through the mask and stills as he lets her explore. Emboldened by his reaction, she moves down his arms and takes his hands in hers. She let's out a shaky sigh at the visual; her small fingers mirroring his massive talons, pale skin against dirty yellow. _Why does this excite her so?_ This fear and curiosity slowly blending.

He tilts his head to look at their hands as well, and she wonders what he sees. They are... _so different._ But, she reckon, the Devil must be used to it. He has walked with them for so long now, watched them.

She wonders if he's been lonely, or if he's done this many times before. A small, selfish part hopes she's the first and only. This otherworldly being, this dragon, she wants to keep all to herself.

She lets go of his hands and reaches up to his mask, wants to look him in the eyes, craving the connection otherwise obscured. He stills and reaches up as well, his grip on her wrists gentle but firm.

“Show me.” She says, and smirks when he purrs back. Guiding her fingers to the edges of the metal, she feels tiny...hatches? She pulls and hears that same hiss she heard last night, the mask loosening in her hands. With the same precision he had, she gently removes it and discards it further up the bed.

Fear still coils around her spine when she sees him, maw twitching and moving before her. Unnatural and strange, she doesn't think she will ever see past that, but his eyes... Oh, she could stare at them forever.

He stretches to his full height, and she almost swears that he preens a little as he proceeds to undress. She can already see his arousal straining against the leather, and she smirks again.

She can end this anytime she wants. She keeps telling herself that, even as she watches his erection emerge before her, hungry and leaking. Even as he crawls atop her bed and she can feel her own desire awaken and scream for him. Even as he pulls her towards him and almost rips the nightgown from her body.

Yes, she can end this anytime, and then he opens his maw around her cheek and jaw to breathe her in and her dissolve slowly starts to crumble. A fang pulls on her chin and then she feels the tip of his tongue flicker against her lips. It's the closest to a kiss they can probably come, and she can do nothing but fall into his arms as the last of her defence leaves her.

She gasps as he pulls her up on her knees and starts to move down her body, maw tickling and tongue tasting. She reaches behind his head and grabs a handful of tendrils to pull and the intensified purring goes straight from his tongue into her skin. _Hmmm._

He settles on her breasts, lapping and nipping until they're quivering and flushed, and she pulls on him again only to bend backwards and _moan_ into his mouth. He trills in pleasure and gently pulls her down to sit across his lap, her knees far too shaky to stand. She can feel his arousal pressing up against her core and she can't help but grind down, the heat inside her spiking out, pulsing, pushing.

He thrums and grinds back, the ridges of his manhood running up her folds and- Oh! Lightning travels from her core and out her legs and spine. He does it again and she swears she can see stars. Then he readjusts and reaches down between them, raising his brows. Another silent question. She smiles.

“Yes.” She says, and remembering his reaction from yesterday leans closer to add; “I demand it.”

He rumbles and nears her as well, maw once more closing around her jaw. Then she feels him enter and ohh- it's almost better than before. Her cheek resting against his shoulder, she relishes in the intimacy, the warmth. Ignoring the voice that tells her that just makes it all the more difficult.

They rock against each other, and with each movement she feels him going deeper, deeper. He has to work to loosen her up, and she gasps with each thrust, covering her mouth the quicker he goes. He burns inside her, his growls mirroring her own sounds, his claws running up her neck and into her hair. He pulls and bares her throat to him, maw closing in and biting down. With his other hand closing around her bottom, he holds her in place as she rides him, faster, harder, her cries muffled against her palm. She reaches for his tendrils again to dig her nails in, and he groans into her skin. Then he lifts her up and she's on her back against the covers with him on top, his manhood still inside her as he thrusts into her heat. Like this, his height makes it impossible for her to face him, but she burrows her face into his chest instead, her ear against his heart. She reaches around his broad back to embrace him, and as she feels it getting closer, she runs her nails hard down his scales. She smiles as he shudders.

She feels it coming, building, this molten heat between them. Closer, closer. She pants into his skin, nails digging so deep they start to ache, _so close, so close._

Then he grabs her by the hips and _really. Slams. In._

And she screams into his chest, teeth against his skin. Heart bursting, core shattering.

She sinks into her covers, body limp as he continues to move above her, fast and rough. She rides out the last of her peak, and when she feels his seed spill into her core, she closes her eyes and smiles. Yes, she can end this anytime. But not tonight.


	9. The Wife and The Mistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut, fluff and smut, fluff and smut

It feels like she's living two lives; the Wife and the Mistress. Day and Night.

She's unsure which one is the real her. Maybe they both are?

oOo

On Wednesday she and her mother goes to Saint Denis' finest tailor, both her sisters are there to offer their eyes, and the day proceeds with chatter, some tea and truly _beautiful_ dresses.

The Wife to be marvels at her reflection, the lace and high collar exquisite against her fair complexion and dark, pinned up hair. She twists and turns, hiding her smile behind her hand. Right now she _never_ wants to take it off.

At night, the Mistress rips off her nightgown when the Devil climbs inside, and she smirks openly at his seemingly surprised appearance. Although it's hard to tell, he almost looks flustered. She makes her way to him and reaches up to unlatch his mask and he purrs in content as he bows down to nuzzle her cheek and ear. Then he takes her by the hips and pushes her up against the wall, her undress as clear a consent as ever. Holding her up with one hand, he unbuckles his codpiece and the urgency of their coupling almost takes her off guard at first, his clothing still on and- _standing up. Not very romantic,_ she has time to think before his maw is on her throat, her shoulder, her breast. She gasps at his long tongue, at his purring. The Mistress relish at his ministrations, and when she feels the pad of his thumb at her core, pushing at her folds, she cries into his shoulder. Hugging his waist with her legs, she grinds against his fingers, feels her dripping into him. In her hazy state she manages to look down between them and inhales as she sees his manhood emerge. She has no recollection from earlier anatomical studies in school of them doing... _that._ Then again, with the Devil, anything could be possible.

She bites her lip at his engorged state, and when he takes him in hand and pulls back the dark foreskin, she reaches down to meet the swollen head, red like blood and equally wet. When she presses a finger against the slit he shudders, pushing to meet her and both her core and her heart throbs in response.

He takes her neck between his teeth again, and readjusts his grip, claws digging into her hips. She squeezes the flared head and he thrums into her flesh, rutting against her once, twice, three times before he gives off a short, deep trill and pushes into her. Her inner heat still tight without a release, she hisses at his girth, despite craving him beyond belief, despite her own wetness. He's slow and precise, as with everything. Patient as well, it seems, as it takes longer tonight to work her open, and when he finally moves inside her without struggle, they're both panting and quivering. Taking a breath, he thrusts in earnest, and her skin bites into the tapestry as she hits the wall. She scowls and he actually looks a little ashamed, the next thrust equally firm but more precise, his hands holding her tight.

It's slightly different, like this, hitting deeper, and she burrows her face into his shoulder to dampen her sounds. A thought blooms inside her, hitting her quicker than she really wants to admit. How wonderful it would be, to scream out her pleasure, and to hear him roar in kind, without repercussions. It was very close, that first time, before he bit down into her and buried his voice into her skin.

Oh, how the Mistress wants to roar with him, be free with him, sin with him. He hits a spot inside her then that almost makes it so, but she bites down and endures, moaning deep into his neck instead. She finds herself whispering against his skin, and she's baffled at her words and her own throaty voice, silently urging him on. _Higher, deeper, harder, faster, yes, yes, yes._ She's panting as he trills and snaps his hips to hit that spot again and she wants to weep into him, claw her way inside him and never let go. When she shatters against him, she almost swears her nails scratch through him, and he rumbles deeply as he spills inside her, beautiful eyes hidden away behind lids shut tight. Slowly putting her down, she sags down against the wall and he quickly follows suit, both of them on the floor trying to breathe.

Her theory proving true, she feels her nails wet with blood and looks down in chock to see – not red like her own – but _green,_ a shade unlike any she has ever seen, glowing and bright. Just a little under her nails, yet it leaves her speechless and she looks up to meet his eyes. He only touches his shoulder where her hands had been and looks at his fingers, his blood stark against his skin. He purrs and finally meets her eyes, and she doesn't know what it is – can't describe it – but the way he looks at her, it feels heavier than any force in the world, in the universe.

His manhood twitches then and she inhales as she watches it swell again, and God help her, her own core already so filled with his seed awakens in kind, craving more. She doesn't object when he reaches for her blankets by her bed, grabs her to turn her around, cheek and knees against the cloth, her core weeping their wetness down her legs. They're far from done, and she finds she's perfectly fine with that. The Mistress wins tonight, and she's perfectly fine with that as well.

oOo

On Thursday, Al greets her from a small automobile, the newest trend in Saint Denis. His grin speaks volumes, an excitement she hasn't really seen in him before.

“Well, c'mon then!” He yells, honking the horn and waving her over. She shushes him frantically as she makes her way over, laughing as he smirks again.

They drive in a steady tempo through the city, and he chats on about the engine, the price, and everything in between. She smiles politely, the details of said vehicle interests her little, but once they're outside on the plains and he steps on the gas, she shrieks out in delight.

It doesn't quite match the feel and speed of a horse underneath her, hooves thundering, but the way they laugh out together as the automobile bumps over stone and road – well – it's a unique experience to say the least. One she will treasure.

The Wife to be looks at Al and his blond, windblown hair, so charming in its chaotic state. She finds she likes it quite a lot.

The Mistress _loves_ his thick mane, the long, sensitive tendrils running down his back and chest. He looks so regal, like a lion, and when she drags her nails down their length and pulls, she might even get him to roar like one. Even if he only lets it out deep into her skin and flesh, she feels it, the power and strength of his voice.

When they reach their climax and he collapses half on top of her, she runs her fingers through his mane and twists a few of the locks together, holding the makeshift braids in her hands only to release them and watch them unfurl across his broad back. He rumbles and rolls over, pulling her to lie atop his chest as he runs his own hands through her hair. Claws across her scalp, she quickly falls asleep, rising and falling as he breathes under her.

oOo

On Friday, she and Adrienne takes a walk through the harbour, the heavy thud of boats and their sirens adequate cover for their conversation. She asks about her brother-in-law, and Adrienne asks about Al in kind.

“This might be a strange thing to say.” Her sister whispers. “But Robert's feet might be my favourite thing about him. Now don't give me that look, let me explain!”

She can't wait to hear what her sister has to say, raising an eyebrow at her.

“You see, he's a hardworking man, never a dull moment!” She starts, and chuckles just a little. “But his feet look like they've never seen a day's work in their life! It's quite fascinating! So fair and soft, he's very ticklish you know! So fun!”

She has a hard time visualising them in that sort of familiar scenario, and wonders for a brief moment if she and Al will ever just lie in bed and act like that. Or- _No, don't._

The Wife to be berates herself, yet a tiny speck of wonder stays until nightfall. Just a tiny bit.

The Mistress sits before his relaxed form, manhood soft and spent against his thigh, her own core equally worn. He lies in front of her, golden eyes never leaving her hand as it travels down his leg, over his knee and down to his foot. She gently takes hold of it to put it in her lap, fingers pushing lightly at his huge claws. This too is different, with long toes and one almost like a thumb. She cannot help but make the comparison to an ape; feet made for grabbing, climbing. She lifts it and holds it to her palm, and he chirps and closes his feet around her, holding her. She can't stop her smile, and when he lets her go she idly runs her fingertips up his sole. It twitches just a little, barely at all actually, but enough for her to smirk at him and dig her nails in just a little harder. This makes him pull away, trilling in annoyance. She straightens a little to give him a leer, but her victory is shortlived as he sits up to pull up her own leg against him, claws lightly tapping against her foot. She shrieks into her palms as he enacts his revenge, and the intimate purr he gives off makes her heart swell in both happiness and dread.

oOo

On Saturday, the Wife to be happen to walk past some of the housestaff, hear them whisper of things that make her cheeks red with shame. She hides behind a corner and continues to listen, biting her lip as her curiosity grows. _To think, that kind of-._ No, no. She curses herself once more, tries not to encourage her mindless desires. _But, the possibilities! That long, forked-_ No!

She tries to think about Al instead, but immediately comes up short.

She isn't even married yet, and the Devil has already ruined her.

The Mistress twists and turns in his grip as he nuzzles her neck and chest, tongue teasing and tickling. She can't get it out of her head, the possibilities...

Without really thinking, she puts her hands atop his head and lightly pushes, downward, downward. He pauses in his ministrations and gives her a questioning look, chirping just a little. She pushes, and he allows it, tongue dragging down her body until she lets go, his face by her core.

Eyes shifting from her face to her folds and back again, he takes a careful hold of her thighs, pushing them apart. She gasps. He purrs.

He closes in to nuzzle her inner thighs at first, his maw a little stiff against her tender flesh, but she doesn't complain. He seems unsure at first, and for a moment she dreads that what she heard wasn't true. If even the Devil pauses, then maybe- Then she feels his tongue against her heat and her remaining thoughts disappear like they were never there. She pushes against him and tenses when she feels the length of his fangs against her, and he purrs into her folds and takes a firmer grip of her legs. _Stay still._ The meaning is crystal clear. She swallows, her heart beating hard against her ribs, and moans out when he leans in to taste her again.

She's felt his fingers, his manhood, both different, both magnificent. This is... She moans again when he moves, his tongue pushing, prodding, _circling._ She has to cover her mouth, has to bite down on the flesh unless she scream the entire household awake. He focuses on her pearl, the eye of the storm, and she wants to sob as he chirps and the purr goes straight up her spine, a heat so intense she feels tears at the corner of her eyes. Her legs quivering under his hands, she feels the eruption coming sooner than it ever has before. Her wetness weep down her thighs, her inner heat a cavern, his tongue eagerly lapping up it all. It feels like she's dying, or being born, she can't decide. He pushes inside her then and when his forked tip flutters up her spot deep within she clamps down on him so quickly and hard it takes them both by surprise. She sings into her palm, tears running down her cheeks, mind blank and empty. He flinches as she shatters, and her toes curl in both pleasure and pain as she feels his fangs graze her inner thighs. The ecstasy far outweighs the stinging bite though, and she lies limp on her covers, core and spine tingling in pleasant aftershock.

He slowly sits back up and cups her cheek, thumb drying away the moisture. She feels his cock hot and heavy against her thigh, her sensitive pearl already throbbing in response. She turns her head to meet his eyes, always a focus for her, yet this time she moves down his face, to his teeth slicked with both her wetness and his spit, to the tip of his tongue just barely poking out. Such a marvel of engineering, such a specimen. _All hers. Only hers._

“What are you doing to me?” She whispers, half to herself and half to him. He doesn't answer, but the way his brows furrow slightly, the way his eyes darken, it almost feels like he's asking her the same.

oOo

On Sunday, the Wife, her husband to be, and her family go to church. They sit and listen, and the more the Father speaks, the more she feels uneasy. He speaks of Satan, temptation, about everything that he is.

She wants to stand up and yell at him to stop, to tell him that he's wrong, wrong about everything.

_Mine is different._

Why? Because he visits her every night and gives her pleasure, while also taking his own? What does he do when he's not with her? _What does he do?_

The Father's words echo through the church, every sentence cutting her soul like a blade. He speaks of Eve, of the ancient serpent, The Dragon, of steeling themselves against his vile cunning.

“Be sober-minded; be watchful!” The Father yells out, the bible in his hand. She recognises the verse; 1 Peter 5:8. “Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion-”

_Seeking someone to devour,_ she finishes internally, her throat dry. Her dragon, her lion. _To devour._

She is quiet on the way home, flinching when Al carefully reaches for her, pulling her hand away.

She doesn't notice their strange looks and worrying faces. Perhaps everything would have been different if she had.

The Mistress lets the Devil take her when night falls, and when he bites into her neck to roar his release, she quickly follows. Her mind may be on edge, but her body is an instrument he has learned to play all too well. She's not complaining, but tonight she has plans. Questions she needs answered, demands she needs fulfilled.

He falls back beside her – body and pose relaxed – and she settles against him, head on his breast. Her eyes follow the hard plain of his stomach, the fine line of tiny sprouts that grow down his chest to his navel, all the way to- She looks at his manhood, limp, glistening with her wetness. The black foreskin is covering most of it by now, and she watches in wonder as it slowly starts to retreat back, and before she can reach for it, his sheath has fully taken it back. _Reptile._ The thought hits her out of nowhere, a memory from the little biology they were taught. She blinks. _The Ancient Serpent. The Dragon._

Another verse comes to her mind, the Father's words ringing clear. _Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light._ She scoffs at this; never once has he fooled her with his countenance. Never once has he appeared to be anything else than what he is. Maybe he shrouds himself anywhere else, but not here. She has seen him, only him.

She slowly sits up and scoots further down his body, closer to his core, wetting her lips as she does. He gives her a questioning chirp, maw twitching when she settles between his legs. Tucking her hair behind her ears she meets his eyes, looks down at his sheath, then back up at him. She sees his eyes widen, then she smirks and bends down to kiss the thinner skin. He shivers, she smirks wider, her lips mouthing gently against him. She feels a twitch, the bulge under her swelling just a little. Pulling back slightly to observe, she sees him still watching her, eyes glistening and dark, his maw just a tad wider. She kisses him again, eyes still on him, and his head falls back against her covers. Another shiver greets her mouth, the sheath warmer, tighter. She tries to remember what he did to her yesterday, and tentatively runs the tip of her tongue against the ever wetter folds. He groans and grabs for the blankets, claws digging into the cloth. A good start, and she digs in just a little more, tongue and lips tasting his musk. It's strong, heady, but not unpleasant, a mixture of sweat and her own wetness still clinging to his skin as well. She can feel her cheeks heating up at the insinuation, tasting herself inside of him. So sinful, so shameful, yet she continues, eyes closing when he purrs and she feels it in her mouth, her head, down her spine. He bucks against her, then she feels it against her tongue, the head of him molten hot and wet. She pulls back to let him emerge once more, dark and swollen. Hard. Huge.

She swallows. It's a little different seeing it up close, _a lot_ different to touch it, her tiny pale hand not quite reaching around the black shaft. She pumps it carefully, watching his reaction, and smirks when he bucks again, a heady groan rumbling through his body. She knows it's silly, but she puts her other hand on his thigh and pushes.

“Stay still.” She says, meeting his glare. He growls just a little, but she feels his manhood twitch in her hand at the demand. The corners of her mouth tug, her mind reeling. Pumping it again, she pulls down the foreskin and kisses the flared head, her heart beating hard as she watches him tug harder on the covers, his thighs and hips quivering.

_Oh, Gabrielle, what are you doing?_ She doesn't really know, and she hopes he can't feel her shaking hand, despite her kisses and seemingly determined orders.

_This is not what a lady should be doing!_ But oh, look at his taut body, his claw-tipped toes flexing as she mouths at his cock, kissing the head and down to the edge of the foreskin. She hesitates, clears her dry throat – it's not like she didn't do this with his sheath just a moment ago – then tentatively runs her tongue up his shaft and back to the head. He lets out a long trill, manhood pulsing against her lips, and she pumps the lower half idly in response. Almost like she soothing it, she giggles inwardly. She looks up to see his head pressed against the bed, eyes closed and maw twitching, and when she pumps a little faster he trills again, sound in sync with her movement.

Yes, she doesn't know what she's doing. But so far it doesn't appear to be anything bad. Quite the opposite. She kisses him again, swallows and closes her lips around the head, carefully and a bit unsure. He bucks then, more of his manhood hitting her throat, and she pulls back coughing, her eyes just a little watery. He sits up to touch her shoulder, trilling concerned and eyes wide. She pushes agains his chest.

“Stay. Still.” She hisses, her voice just a little rough, but pauses at his guiltridden frown. _Seeking someone to devour._ Hah. “I'm fine.” She clears her throat and tries to sound a bit gentler, stroking his thigh as he slowly gets back down. “I promise.” She kisses his shaft for good measure, and he chirps in response.

She tries again, mouth around his head, tongue circling. She doesn't dare go further, the burning in her throat a bittersweet reminder of his girth. She runs her hand up and down the shaft, squeezing at the root and right under the head where she licks, kisses, sighs against his sensitive flesh.

She hears his panting, feels his body straining under her, desperate to move, to rut into her mouth's tight heat. But he doesn't, because she told him not to.

This Serpent of deceit, this Devil of sin lies by her feet, at her mercy. She presses her tongue to his slit, leaking and wet, and he bends his head to _weep_ at the sky. She has never felt more powerful in her life. Her Dragon. The world can have their angel in disguise, hidden in the light. This is for her, and only her. She bends her wrist just so to tug harder and almost chokes – not because he accidentally bucks into her again, oh no – but because he has to let go of her blankets to cover his maw, to roar into his palms as he erupts underneath her. The gesture is... so vulnerable, so genuine, she can only stare as she pulls away, his seed spitting out on her lips, her cheeks, down her neck and breasts. He bucks in earnest then, rutting into her fists as he rides out his pleasure. She's stunned, speechless, and when he falls down limp again, eyes closed and chest heaving, her heart squeezes painfully tight. She takes her nightgown to clean herself, dipping it in the waterbowl by her nightstand. She's learned quickly the cons of leaving it for later. Ugh.

He's opened his eyes again to gaze at her, and when she reaches to clean his wet limb he purrs with warmth. _Personification of Evil, indeed._ She scoffs and discards her gown, climbing up to lie atop his chest, and he rests his head on his arm to meet her eyes. Heart to heart, face to face.

“Mine.” She whispers, barely audible, and runs a finger down a tendril, toying with a metal ring.

He takes a deep breath and she rises a little as he does, then he trills deeply and low, maw moving and teeth clicking. She may not know his words, but she doesn't need to.

“Yes, yours” She smiles, and he reaches up to put an arm across her back, hand squeezing her bottom fondly.

The Wife to be wakes on Monday and looks out the window, already wishing for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe two, three chapters left of part 1 ┐(︶▽︶)┌


	10. The Lover

One month before the wedding, and the lines are starting to blur. When Al calls for her she goes with him hollow and dreadful. She thinks of their future, and cannot fathom how he could ever compare. At least they can converse, yet everything he says to her is empty and lifeless, and when they drive his automobile through the city she takes solace in the wind and sound of the engine, drowning out any attempt at connection. She feigns headaches as often as she can, but feels horrible everytime.  _It's not his fault. He's a kind man, a loving man._ Who can blame him for his only flaw? Because who could ever be more powerful than the Devil? 

One month before the wedding, and her sister Marianne pulls her aside, takes her out to the garden to sit under their tree. She bites her lip, her eyes worried.

“You have a lover.” She says quietly, and her face drains of whatever little colour she had to begin with. She opens her mouth to speak but Marianne holds up a hand. “I know my little sister.” She says. “And I also know myself.”

“You-” She stammers, and Marianne fingers awkwardly with the skirt of her dress.

“Mother would never approve. He's...not what they intend for me.” She whispers. “So we see each other in secret.” She meets her eyes. “I see you when you're with Al, you were happy at first, but now you only look guilty. I see the same in me. It's...a terrible feeling; lying.”

Her sisters words sting, even if they're true. She takes Marianne's hand in hers.

“A secret between sisters, I hope? You won't tell if I won't.”

“Of course!” She looks surprised. “I never intended- I only wanted to clear the air, have someone to confide in, be confided with. You're my baby sister, I'd never tell.”

She nods, squeezing her hand.

“And I won't either.”

They sit in silence for a long time, hands aching when they let go. Her words ache as well. How she wishes she could fully confide in Marianne. How she wishes she could tell her  _everything._

But how could she ever say anything without them thinking her mad? A loneliness she's never felt before slowly creeps up her spine, and despite them sitting right next to each other, it feels like they're worlds apart.

One month before the wedding, and the Devil lies by her side, trilling softly as he strokes her hair, her cheek against his chest. Now and again he looks out the window. He's been doing it a lot the last few nights. The moon is almost full, and she loves how he looks in the light, the stark shadows highlighting his remarkable physique. She runs a finger down his abdomen, nails scraping against his scales. He rumbles, turning to look at her with mirth is his eye.

“What's so fascinating outside, huh?” She asks, nails digging into his hip. She feels the muscle jump. “Is it more fascinating than me?”

His maw twitches, his eyes glinting as he moves his hands from her hair and shoulder down to her bottom, squeezing possessively. She hums against his breast and smirks.

“I didn't think so.”

When did she become so proud? So demanding? He pulls it out of her, this hotblooded wanting. This fire in her veins. His otherness calls to her.

He rumbles again, perhaps even laughs, and sits up to push her down against the covers by her hips. She bites her lip when he kneels behind her, fingers digging into her flesh, claws pressing lightly against the skin.

When he mounts her she sighs into her blankets and embraces the wish of this never, ever ending.

One month before the wedding, she wakes when the Devil climbs out of her bed and slowly starts to dress himself. She sits up as he nears the window, the light of the full moon illuminating the metal against his skin. He stares out over their garden for a long time, staring at the light, his maw twitching.

She feels uneasy at this, his apparent contemplation seems... strange, like something is about to happen. He's been off the whole evening, his attention and intimacy not lacking, but... She stands up.

“Are you leaving?” She whispers, hisses almost, and he turns from the moon to look at her, his eyes golden and wide. Not 'leaving for tonight', and he seems to understand that.

He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, yet that tells her all.

“Why?” She asks, her heart a hardened knot in her throat. He opens his maw but stops at the same moment she realises as well. How could he explain? She shakes her head and asks instead; “Will you come back?” 

_Is he not hers?_ _Are they not each other's?_ She doesn't understand this sudden change, this despair and anger filling her. Did he get what he wanted; claiming her and having her pronounce her as his? Her frustration peaks and she walks closer. 

“I demand an answer!” She says, hugging her arms close to her body, her nudity suddenly awkward and vulnerable.

He walks closer as well, fastening his mask on his belt to reach for her shoulders. He gives her a shake, a comforting gesture, and nods. She feels the anxiety immediately drain.

“When?”

He trills silently, looking past her head to contemplate once more. His eyes look troubled. That too tells her all.

“You don't know.” She murmurs, and he trills again, a quiet keen.

He bends to press his forehead against hers, hand reaching for her own. It feels like a promise, and she settles a little.  _He will come back._

When he straightens to leave she surprises herself by stopping him, cupping his face in her palms to kiss his jaw, under his eye, his brow, his forehead. He closes his eyes and purrs. It has never sounded so pleased, and so sad.

Once he's disappeared out into the night, she knows. Not only has she given the Devil her body, but her heart as well.

One month before the wedding, and she knows this can't continue. With her Dragon gone, the days are hollow and the nights even more so. She aches without him, and fears at the implications. Once he returns, she knows without a doubt that she'd follow him to the ends of the earth, beyond it if she could. She also knows that this is what he must have planned from the start, to slowly pull her away and then drag her down with him. Both anger and indifference fills her about this.

She dreads meeting Al, refuses to leave her room, and her family grows all the more concerned, demanding answers she can't give. It's beyond suspicious. She knows this as well.

It can't continue.

It began in the bayou, by the river, in Lady Bernoune's garden. It began with the bodies.

She thought it ended when he stepped into her room, but she was wrong.

It began when she accepted the flower, and it ends when she's called to her stepfather's study, the skulls of a bear, a bird, a cougar and a gator placed on his desk. His skulls. Her gifts. Her handmaiden sits on a chair in the corner, refusing to meet her eyes.

It ends when she's found out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns*


	11. The Beginning and the End ll

It began when her haindmaiden, Sally had rushed in to sooth her after an apparent nightmare. When she'd screamed out in horror.

It began when she'd noticed her stealing salt from the kitchen, praying loud and desperately into the night.

It began when she'd found the skulls on her nightstand and hidden under her bed.

...

It began when her mother and stepfather had noticed her sudden melancholy, her drifting thoughts and silent demeanour a cause for concern.

It began when they'd heard her talk in the night, mumble, sigh and chuckle. Wedding jitters? Her usual spirited behaviour affected from the nerves? They hoped so. 

It began when she'd blame headaches, and distancing herself from Alphonse.

And it ended when her mother found her in her room, one month before the wedding, naked and wailing into her sheets, refusing to get up. When she sees the scars and marks on her body and demands that she explains, she burrows her face deeper in her pillow and cries all the more.

It ended with her stepfather questioning everyone of their employees, about anything that could be a clue, beginning with Sally, who in fear had shown him almost everything that she knew. The ripped nightgowns and covers who still bore the traces of his seed and her blood; that she kept to herself.

…

It ends when she sits in his study, unable to explain why or how. Her voice stutters, her hands are shaking, and every attempted explanation falls flat on her tongue. All obvious lies.   
  
It ends when she instead says she can't go through with the marriage, tears running down her cheeks as she watches him turn red with fury.

It ends when they lock her in her room, her mother crying at the debacle, Adrienne insisting through the door that it's simply jitters making her behave like this, that the Devil is at fault, preying on her doubts and nerves, and God will make her love Al like she loves Robert. If only she knew how close she was to the truth. Marianne is quiet like the grave.

It ends when they refuse to tell Al, insisting they can fix this and make the wedding happen anyway. She tries to imagine her life, her future. Trie to imagine everything she has told herself over these last few weeks; that she loves Al, and that she can be happy. That she can have her Dragon as well, hiding in the night.

Except all she would do is live a lie, a lie that inevitably would come to light. Her sister already knows, how long would it take for her  _husband_ to find out? 

It ends when she realises that they will force her, if they have to. A woman refusing her intended would turn into a scandal. She knows this.

And...if she told them the truth, they would think her even more mad and that too, would be a scandal. It's bad enough that she can't explain the skulls, the praying, the chanting, the salt, the screams. They must have heard her when the pleasure was too great to hide as well. When she was careless, when they both were.  _Oh, God._ What if they send her away? To a cloister perhaps, or- or an asylum. Her blood turns cold.  _Oh, God._

She has to choose, either she goes willingly, and the result will be marriage to a man she only now realises she has never loved. Or they force her, and the result will be  _incarceration_ and marriage. Neither will bring her happiness. 

It ends when the decision is made for her, when she wakes in the night from the sound of a key in her door. Marianne sneaks in, satchel and bundles of clothes in her arms. She sits up and stares as her sister climbs atop her bed and takes her hands.

“Gaby.” She hasn't called her that in ages. There's a seriousness to her voice that she's never heard before. She takes her hands in her own, fingers trailing up her arms to her shoulders, tracing the scars at her neck. She looks sad.“Gaby, what have you let into your bed?”

Not 'who'.  _What._ She lowers her eyes. 

“I don't know.”

Marianne is still for a long while, silent, grave. It feels like an eternity until she simply nods, turns and reaches for the bundle she brought with her. She hands her the clothes, the bags,  _the gun_ , all belongings of their late father. Then she gives her the same serious look like earlier.

“Don't make it come here again.”

Does her own sister threaten her? No. No, it's more a warning than a threat, and looking down at the bundle she has received, she knows.

“I won't.” She says, and means it. Because no matter what happens, she will never let him go, and if she won't, things will only get worse. Marianne sees it, sees it as clearly as she did in the beginning.

The implications breaks her heart, and she falls atop her sister's lap, weeping. Marianne cries as well, and they stay like that for a long time, sobbing out their love and farewells. She promises to tell Adrienne as best she can; that she's sorry, that she loves her, that she had to leave.

It ends when she hugs Marianne one final time, dresses in her father's clothes, packs a satchel and sneaks down through the kitchen. Before she goes, she turns to her sister. Marianne stays on her bed, ashen grey and wet eyed.

“Is it worth it?” She asks, her voice hoarse and quiet.

Is it? She does not know.

“I'm going to find out.” She answers, then disappears through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns*


	12. The Bayou

The bayou is quiet, and she knows she shouldn't, the Marshal's words heavy on her mind, but she rides forward anyway. It's an incredibly foolhardy thing to do, but she knows she has to. It began here, so truly it must end as well? With only a gun and a lantern raised, she rides in through the swamp.

The bayou is quiet, except the crickets chirping in the night. A few birds as well, high up in the trees. The sun will rise soon. Riding slowly through the grass, she thinks of him and his place in this world. He lurked here, among the trees, high up in the shadows. Hidden, withdrawn.

She thinks of the bodies then, and grows cold in the knowledge that no man could have done it. She's fully accepted taken the Devil as her lover, but can she accept that he is also a killer? For a moment she halts, her horse a little restless beneath her. Can she? No, find him first, try having him explain. He's seduced her, taken her, given himself. And in doing so pulled her away from her life. He will explain, then she will decide.

The bayou is quiet, and in the light of the morning sun she sees the remains of a run down house through the trees. Nothing left but rotten wood and stone. Pillars overgrown with moss and vines. Having ridden most of the night, it's as good a shelter as she's going to get. Dismounting her horse, she walks through the house, stepping over broken glass, boxes and overgrown roots. Nothing human left. In the corners she sees sprouts of flowers, and in the really moist parts tiny orchids peek through. White ones, pink as well. She holds her breath. Frantically she searches, rummages through the clutter. _Something, there has to be. Something, anything!_

The bayou is quiet, and when the sun rises above the trees and she thinks she's going mad, the rays crawl like snakes through the stone and she sees it; tiny, barely visible through the leaves. A small bird skull. She almost throws herself at it, her horse snorting at her sudden movement.

A small bird skull, part of its beak broken off, with a small crack running up to its eye socket.

It could have been here forever, dragged here by a predator to be consumed and rotten away. Except...and she almost chokes on her broken laughter, it's polished, just like the one on her nightstand. _He was here, he must have been. He must._

The bayou is quiet, except for the sound of chuckles and giggles, perhaps even crying. It's difficult to tell in the swamp.

The bayou is quiet, but not for long. As the creatures rise with the sun she sits down to plan. The search begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end folks! Updates miiight be a little slower seeing as school has started again and I'll have a lot on my plate, but I'll try my best :)


	13. The Reunion

The woman searches, and it led her all the way from Saint Denis, through Austin and back up to Ambarino. And it is here that she stays through the winter, hidden in solitude with the grandmother and her family. The winters here are long, and they don't dare let her leave until the thaw has settled in.

It is a restlessness she has never felt before, an anxiety so blinding and strangling that she feels like crawling through her own skin would be the only solace.

The grandmother treats her no different from before, her tale an amusement to her old mind. Yet it is oddly comforting as well to have been able to let it out, to speak of it. Oh, how she wished she could have told Marianne, and the sudden thought of her sister leads her mind to even darker places. She turns from the window, turns from the trees outside.

“Why do you think that he has not found you?” The grandmother asks one night, and the question wounds her heart like a knife. Why, indeed? Is the Devil not all-knowing? Should he not have been here by her side by now? Still...

“He hasn't returned yet.” She says, barely audible, closing her eyes. “He didn't know when he would.”

The old woman looks through the window and sighs out into the night.

“What could a being such as him possibly be so busy with?” She almost laughs out and rocks back into the chair. “What an odd thing to do. So undramatic.”

She opens her eyes again to stare at her. It...is odd, and she wonders what he could be doing. Is he still occupied with...whatever he had to do? Or is he frantically searching for her? But shouldn't he know, then?

Why did he leave to begin with? Why?

She doesn't realise the tears until the grandmother reaches over to pat her cheeks dry.

“Oh, my dear thing.” She murmurs, and pulls her into an embrace. “How far down you've been pulled.”

On the 28th of April, the snow slowly starts to melt, and it is with both eagerness and heaviness she says goodbye to the family. These people, who've wanted nothing from her, who only wanted to shelter her. It feels like forever since she's felt this warmth. She promises to come back and visit, if she can.

She rides further down south again, back towards Strawberry, and the trapper is there like last time. He refreshes her memory with the bow, and she can tell it's been a slow winter for him as well, his enthusiasm barely contained.

On the 30th of April, she wakes in the saloon one year older, twenty two years old. She should have been married to Al by down, maybe even pregnant. Instead she's alone far away from her home and her family, searching for a ghost. _What is she doing?_ She doesn't know.

“Happy birthday, Gabrielle.” She whispers to no one but herself, eyes drifting out towards the woods of northern Hannover. She needs to get out, to disappear deep into the wild. To breathe for just a moment. To somehow, _somehow_ get closer to what he was and what she felt when she was near him.

It begins when she skips breakfast and heads straight to the stable, setting off towards Manzanita Post. Once there, she leaves her horse and packs her essentials in a satchel on her back, then she vanishes through the trees.

It begins when she stalks through the dense woods, nothing but the birds and the rustling of the trees above and around her, the grass and the earth beneath her feet. Sitting down to breathe she asks herself again what she's doing. Even if going back to Saint Denis is an impossibility, she could have stayed in Ambarino. She could, truly. The family was good, the grandmother was good. The life was _good._ It feels like an eternity since she's really felt anything at all.

No, a lie. Frustration and anger, hopelessness. She hates what this has done to her.

It begins with her continuing further into the wood, wrathfilled oil slicking her soul dark.

It begins with her screaming, roaring. Spilling out her feelings into the wild.

And it ends with her stumbling into the buried den of a newly awakened grizzly. In hindsight, waltzing straight into the northern woods all by herself was an incredibly stupid thing to do.

Running, she's spent her whole life doing it. Running ahead, running back, running away, and now...running for her life.

The bear is massive, its heavy paws digging up the dirt as it races after her. The skull in her stepfather's office, the skull she received from Him, the both pale in comparison to what the real thing is behind her. Its roar making her nerves turn to ice, she feels her lungs screaming as she rushes through the brush. Across stone, across dirt, across the roots.

Until she trips on the wet moss, her body slamming hard against the rocky ground and the air leaving her lungs in an instant.

She feels the heavy thuds of the beast nearing. _She'll die here,_ she has time to think. She doesn't think about her life, all those moments passing before ones eye, or her family. No, just the cold, hard truth. _She'll die here._

Then she hears it; bone chilling, raw, ethereal. A roar unlike any other shreds through the woods and as she slowly turns to meet the grizzly and her own end she sees its body slammed hard against the nearest tree by an unseen force. _No, wait._ Not unseen; the space around it seem to bend and twist and she's seen it before. At the river, in the trees. Is it..?

The unseen mass slams against the bear once more and its body lifts and twists in the air in the most unnatural of ways, its massive arms swiping and slamming against its unknown assailant. She stays on the ground frozen in fear, her eyes refusing to close no matter how much she tries to bid her body to react. The bear growls, roars, pants, and its attacks and noises are met with equal fervour of clicks, hissing and....and furious trills. Then the unseen mass twists and extends, swiping one last time, and the bear's neck splits open, dark, thick blood painting the trees and ground red. She feels it slap against her face and chest, the dirt beneath her, and the chock of it lights her body anew. She flinches, gasps, and then the heavy body lowers to the ground, the mass above it panting, it too splattered with red. Then it shivers, and the air around it thrums and bends, like a stone disturbing a calm pool of water, and before her stands the Dragon, clad in bone, metal and blood, both red and glowing green. Her Dragon. _Hers._ Two blades, jagged and twisted, extends from his wrist, and on his back she sees weapons he's never worn on his visits to her home. Some she can place, other's...are completely unknown to her.

She's frozen in place, staring up at his mask, void of all emotion. She longs for his eyes, aches. It hits her then that she has no earthly notion on what to say, or what to do.

He hunches down then, his movements just a tad stuttered by his own injuries, and cups her jaw in his massive palm, his claws tickling her ear, her cheek, her neck. He trills, quiet and soft. Then she hears it; jagged, grumbled, _inhuman_.

Ģ̵̢̨̱̱͉͂̊̎ͅa̶͙̫̤̓̽̓̃͆͜b̵̗͉̙̩̻̝̒̊͂͗̓͗̿͝r̶̨̺̞͌͛̚ī̸̘̪͎̆̐̌͛͋̈́e̴̞̩̭̺͋̔̈́͋̈́̈͋̆l̵̳̟̰̳̀͗̎̋l̶̼͔̜̩͍̓̾͝ḕ̷̲͕̄̓͐̚̚

A burning hand reaches through her chest to squeeze her heart and spine. She grabs for his hand when she hears it, nails digging in, holding tight. Terrified to let go.

“You...you can talk?” She can barely get the words out, her lungs still aching from the fall, her mind still reeling from his presence. “You know my name.”

He trills again.

Y̶̡̻̯̺͛̅ë̸̞͎́̔͋͊̎s̷̝̣̲͒̉́̋̚.

Such a frustratingly clear yet unclear answer. She swallows, opens her mouth, closes it. Her mind still reeling, she settles on the only thing that truly matters in this instance.

“What...are you?”

He tilts his head, then looks away. Contemplating, she knows the gesture well by now. So well. He rumbles out a sigh.

N̷̳̓o̶̲͙͗̇t̷̢̋̅͜ ̵͉͘w̶̞͂h̷̦̿͑́͜a̶̛̤̋ť̵̯ ̵̡̭̈y̷̤̺̒̄ǫ̵̈́̿̄ù̴͇̈́͒'̵̠̝̼̃v̵̧͍̬̓e̵̡̨͌͗̊ ̴͉͙̓̍̓ẗ̶̠͔͓́̍̌h̸̬̮͌ơ̵͇͎͌̊ṳ̴̈́g̵͎̦͌͌h̵̡͂̿ṫ̵͜.̴̱͂̅͐ ̸̪̠͊͂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transcripts if his speech is hard to read: 
> 
> "Gabrielle"
> 
> "Yes"
> 
> "Not what you've thought"
> 
> Kind of a cliffhanger ending, sorry about that lol 
> 
> The next part will be a story of its own told from his perspective and also feature the ending and epilogue :)

**Author's Note:**

> So I had a dream a couple of weeks ago where a victorian lady started to think she was going mad, because the devil visited her each night to court her and make love to her. Turns out it was a yautja on his yearly hunt who'd seen her and thought "Nice". 
> 
> Soooo after a 3-year long hiatus battling depression and anxiety, I decided with encouragement from my therapist to try and write it down. Also, I've been playing a ton of Red Dead (it might show) and wanted to do western. And here we are! I have to say I'm very fond of it so far, already planning more parts and all that jazz ~


End file.
